


A Wretched Virus

by FuchsiaMae



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: F/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2019-08-20 01:31:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16546247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuchsiaMae/pseuds/FuchsiaMae
Summary: Rosalind has the flu.(Originally posted to Tumblr 06/14/13)





	A Wretched Virus

Alright. This wasn’t so bad. She was out of bed and across the room, and she’d only wavered once. Now just down the staircase to the floor below, and—

Glancing over the banister made her queasy. Best not do that. She fixed her eyes on the step in front of her.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Grip the rail to keep from swaying. Step.

“Rosalind Lutece!”

Her progress halted as the voice barked her name, and she looked up guiltily.

“Just where do you think you’re going?”

Her brother waited at the bottom of the stairs, oozing disapproval. But Rosalind Lutece would not be deterred. “To  _my_  laboratory,” she returned stiffly, raising her chin in defiance, and took another step down. Without looking at her feet, she nearly missed it.

She half-stumbled, and he darted forward, his face set in a frown. “You certainly are not. Get back to bed right now.”

“I’ll only be a moment, I just need to test something—”

She tried to elbow past him, but he caught her by the shoulders. “You’re not going anywhere but back upstairs.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

But in trying to push him away she threw herself off-balance. A rush of lightheadedness took her, seeping black and dizzying at the edges of her vision, and she felt herself teeter as her knees gave out. Robert grabbed her about the waist before she could fall. “Rosalind Lutece, you are not well, and you will stay in bed until I say you may leave it, is that clear?”

“I  _beg_  your pardon—” But the protest ended in a yelp as he scooped her up in his arms. “Put me down!” He didn’t. “You put me down this instant!”

Her struggles ignored, her brother carried her back up the stairs and dropped her unceremoniously into bed. “Now you stay put,” he scolded, like a nanny to a child, “or I shall tie you to the bedposts.”

Rosalind glared up at him. “This is preposterous.”

“Rosalind, you were retching in the lavatory last night for over an hour. You are in no condition to go anywhere.”

“I only want to check something.” She tried to sit up, but his hand on her shoulder held her down.

“Tell me what it is and I’ll do it for you.”

“It’s—just—” But the next word escaped her, and her mouth was left open as she searched for it. “—There now, I’ve forgotten.”

Robert covered a smile as his twin flopped back against the pillows. “If it’s so important, you’ll remember.”

Rosalind, however, would not be pacified. “A brilliant potential discovery, gone forever,” she fumed, and folded her arms in a sulk. “I hope you’re happy.”

He answered with a kiss on her forehead—and frowned. Her skin felt hot beneath his lips. “You’re still feverish.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged uncaringly.

“Please, Rosalind.”

“It’s a stomach flu, not polio. I’ll be fine. I do wish you’d stop fretting.”

“And  _I_  wish you’d  _rest_.” He sighed and bent to fix her rumpled bedclothes. “Honestly, you’re a worse patient than I ever was.”

“No one could be a worse patient than you were. I’m still finding bloodstains on the furniture, I’ll have you know.”

At the foot of the bed, he smoothed the duvet and tucked it neatly at the corners. “How can a woman be so brilliant and yet not realize that she cannot operate delicate equipment with shaking hands and a fever?”

“The rug in the library shall never recover,” she continued, not listening.

“If I hadn’t been there just now, you’d have fallen down those stairs and snapped your neck.”

“And the kitchen looked like a murder scene for days.” She lifted her head to let him straighten her pillows. “Took me ages to scrub up. All because your sweet tooth couldn’t wait twenty minutes longer for me to get home.”

“It was not that bad.”

“Maybe for you. You weren’t the one who found her brother collapsed in a pool of blood on her  _white_  tile floor.”

“I was just fine until I saw those notes on the blackboard. What person calculates temporal probabilities in the kitchen?”

“ _We_  do.”

“Well, yes, but—”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t argue with me, I’m ill.”

Robert smiled to hear the line he’d used so often himself during his convalescence. Teasing meant she felt better. Pulling the blankets up around her a final time, he asked, “I’ll bring you some broth, shall I?” Rosalind grimaced in response. “You’ve got to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t had anything since yesterday.”

“It’ll only come up again.”

“You can try it, at least.”

His tone said clearly that he would not be moved. She recognized this, and let out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. If you insist. But I expect you to hold my hair back when it makes me sick.”

“Of course I will.” He reached out to stroke her hair, and though she let him, she glared the whole time. “Be back in a moment.”

As he turned to go, she grumbled after him, “You are an absolute nuisance.”

“I love you, too.”

He’d already made a stockpot of chicken broth the night before, so all he had to do was warm some up on the stove and ladle it into a bowl. In no time he readied a neat tray of soup with soda crackers, and didn’t spill a drop as he brought it up the stairs. He’d barely been gone fifteen minutes, but when he returned to the bedroom, he found his sister had drifted into a light doze.

A soft smile touched his lips, and he lingered a long moment in the doorway, taking the time to watch her. She looked so peaceful like this. A fevered flush still lingered in her cheeks, but it was beginning to die down now, the hot red color of the night before fading to a soft pinkness. Her hair escaped its nightcap to curl in soft tendrils about her face. Even in bed she did her best to keep it up and out of her way, complaining there was too much of it, but he adored her rich copper mane—identical in color to his own hair, but much longer and fuller, and smelling of her. Sleep smoothed the worries and frowns from her face, and he wondered for the millionth time if it was narcissism to say he made a beautiful woman.

He cautiously stepped inside, doing his best not to wake her, but as he set the tray down on the bedside table her eyes blinked open. She sat up immediately, trying to hide that she’d been asleep—blinking away a sudden head rush from rising too quickly, but doing it so as to be barely noticeable. Stubbornly pretending she was fine. His eyebrow quirked as he wondered out loud, “Am I really as stubborn as you?”

He knew the answer before she said it. “Of course.”

His hands reached to pass her the tray of food, but she beat him to it, pride to be self-sufficient winning out for the moment over reluctance to eat. Once she had it, though, she didn’t touch her meal. He raised his eyebrows and shot her a warning look.

She shot one back. “I’m still not hungry.”

“You still need to eat.”

“Robert.”

“Rosalind.”

Their steely gazes held for a long beat, like two bulls locked at the horns—until at last Rosalind relented. “Fine. But just a bit. And you’ll—”

“—Hold your hair when it comes up again, yes.” Robert watched as his twin nibbled grudgingly at a cracker, refusing to finish it in any less than five minutes. The scene reminded him of his own illness, and the many times he’d behaved the same way. They were quite a pair indeed. “What have we done, unleashing two of us on one world?”

“The world can take care of itself.”

With the airy reply, she lifted a spoonful of soup—and her shaking hand nearly splashed it on herself. Her brows knit in a frown. Trying again, she gripped the spoon tight and raised it slowly, but it still trembled as she brought it to her mouth and barely missed spilling.

Robert watched with a carefully blank expression as the third spoonful dribbled down her chin. “Though it seems you cannot.”

“Hmph.” She pursed her lips peevishly as he took the spoon.

“May I?”

“You may not.”

“Rosalind.”

“I am not a child, Robert.”

“No, but you need to eat, and—”

“I can feed myself, thank you.”

“Really? Because it looked more like you were trying to wear the soup than to eat it.”

“Hmph.” But at last she complied, opening her mouth as he raised the spoon, glaring daggers at him all the while.

“ _There_  we go.” He fed her a first spoonful, and a second. “That’s better, isn’t it? Open up, now, there’s a good girl…”

His voice took on a babying note, and the daggers in her eyes sharpened. “ _Stop_.”

Robert couldn’t hide the grin twisting the corners of his mouth. He lowered the spoon. “I do apologize. Though I must confess, it’s rather darling to see you this way.”

“Debilitated?” she grumbled.

He answered honestly. “Needful of me.”

It took them both by surprise. He hadn’t meant to be so heartfelt. He was about to brush it off as nothing, but the sudden vulnerability in her eyes stopped him. “Brother…” she said quietly, her proud front set aside. “Of course I need you. I need you like I need myself.”

He dropped his gaze to the bed, as one of his hands wandered out to stroke one of hers. “Need, needed, will need?”

“Yes.”

He took the hand and kissed it. “As I you.” Leaning in, he smoothed the stray curls away from her face and kissed her forehead tenderly. “My dearest twin.” He rested his forehead against hers, and she allowed herself to savor the contact, relaxing into him, smiling softly for the first time in days. In unison their blue eyes opened and met. Identical gazes confirmed that no matter how they picked at one another, they were two of one kind, inseparable.

But of course the tender moment couldn’t be allowed to last. “You realize that by getting so near me, you’re apt to fall ill yourself.”

“I’ve taken greater risks to be with you.” He brushed a last soft kiss on her lips before breaking the mood himself. “Anyway, by then you’ll be better, and it’ll be you playing nursemaid again. Just like old times.”

Grinning wryly as he chuckled, she shoved him lightly away, sitting up as she did so—and nearly spilling the whole bowl of soup on her lap as she suddenly swayed. Her hand went to her head, and she shut her eyes against a wave of dizziness.

Her brother was attentive in a heartbeat. “Rosalind? What is it?”

“Nothing. Dizzy.” Quickly moving the tray out of harm’s way, he offered a clean chamberpot to be sick in, but she shook her head. “Just need to rest my eyes.” She focused on her breathing to steady herself, inhaling and exhaling slowly and evenly until at last the nausea subsided. When her eyes opened again, he was gone. “Robert?”

“Coming.” And he reappeared holding a basin of water and a hand towel. “Here.” He dampened the towel and pressed it to her forehead, and a long sigh of relief escaped her as coolness spread across her fevered skin. “Better?”

“Much.” Tipping her head back, she let him mop her face, his large hands gentle and attentive. One cradled the back of her head as the other daubed the forehead, her cheeks, the tired hollows of her closed eyes. She let her head fall forward, and as he pressed the cloth to the back of her neck, she felt cool relief seep into her bones.

Her twin’s tenderness soothed her as much as the water’s touch. No one had cared for her like this since she was very small. She wouldn’t trust anyone to except him.

When she’d had enough, he stepped away just to set the towel down, but she sat up sharply as though he might leave. “Robert.” He looked back to see rare earnestness in her face. “Sit with me?”

He needed not a word more. Towel and basin and tray of food forgotten, he moved to settle on the empty half of the bed, and Rosalind nestled into his side. As his arm wrapped around her, she let out a contented purr. “Better?” he asked again.

“Much.” She still felt tired, and sick, and she loathed this wretched virus, but having Robert near was a comfort all the same. Her head pillowed snugly on his chest as the last of her tension ebbed away. A broad hand stroked her spine. Relaxed in the safety of her other-self’s arms, she murmured, “Thank you for this.”

“For what?”

“Putting up with me. Even when I’m a chore.”

“Rosalind.” She felt him nuzzle her hair. “When I was at death’s door, you mended me. Now it’s my turn to mend you.”

His romanticism earned a dry snort. “Dramatics.”

He answered only, “Perhaps so.”

The pair fell silent then. He held her until she slept.


End file.
